Issue №57 Fowl Feathered Review is the disorderly quarterly set and electrotyped by The Springound Mammoth Pancake Coalition, published by Fowlpox Press. Edited by Virgil Kay, from his paper canoe in a pit lake in the Isle of the Cosmic Drag, where featherheads play pinochle on the rooftops, and the boastful are turned into doormats. Layout and artwork by Paris Pâté. Melodrama and greasepaint: King Moody. Pregnant pause by Silent Bill. ISSN: 1929-7238. Erratum, typos, and electrical fires: Unkie Bob. Published with financial assistance from the Ecum Secum Literary Brain Trust. Their contribution of a wooden nickel is greatly depreciated. Printed on the branches of Fairy Lake Tree, British Columbia "Everything has been said. But nobody listens. Therefore it has to be said all over again—only better. In order to say it better, we have to know how it was said before." --Roger Shattuck “Oh, goodbye, cruel world, I'm off to join the circus.” -- James Darren
Send 2-227 poems, 2-953 paintings, or a twelve inch sandwich to: [email protected] Address to Virgil Kay, Editor, Rooster, and Three Taverns habitué. Include a short bio, which we won’t use. The poems should be attached as a word document, or PDF. The artwork should be attached as a jpg, tiff, or other. The sandwich should be wrapped in clear plastic and include a small packet of mayonnaise. We accept poetry and artwork 365 days a year. We also reject poetry and artwork 365 days a year. We keep the sandwiches. We’re very busy. And delightfully corpulent. Leap years: You’re cordially invited to take a flying leap any year you like.
The Saga of the Viking Women and Their Voyage to the Waters of the Great Sea Serpent (1958) and Nanni Moretti's Caro Diario (1993) are like those mismatched socks that somehow always manage to find each other in the depths of your dresser drawer. One's a Technicolor, B-movie adventure with a capital "B" directed by Roger Corman, while the other is a slow-burn, slice-of-life Italian drama directed by Nanni Moretti, whose films are like watching paint dry if paint drying was somehow captivating. But somehow, these two films manage to find their groove together, like an odd couple who unexpectedly become the best of friends. In The Saga of the Viking Women (also known as The Viking Women and the Sea Serpent), we follow a crew of female vikings as they set out to find their missing men, who have been taken by some mysterious sea creature. These women aren't your typical damsels in distress; they're warriors, leaders, and all-around flandeurs who aren't afraid to take charge of their own destinies. They face all sorts of horrifying creatures and obstacles along the way, but they persevere because they have each other. It's a bold reimagining of traditional gender roles in a patriarchal society, and it's a breath of fresh air. WHY EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT MOVIES AND THEIR MEANING IS A LIE, by Egypt Sierra BY EGYPT SIERRA
Conversely, Caro Diario follows the life of director Nanni Moretti as he navigates the emotional fallout of a breakup. This isn't your typical bros-being-bros kind of breakup; it's a deep, personal journey for Nanni, one that takes him through the entire gamut of emotions over the course of a year. Moretti's camera lingers on the mundane details of his life, capturing the small moments that make up the tapestry of a broken heart. It's a slow, introspective film that forces you to confront your own feelings of loss and heartache. But it's in these contrasting portrayals of gender roles and emotional expression that these two films find their common ground. The over-the-top action sequences of The Saga of the Viking Women serve as a stark contrast to the subdued, intimate visual style of Caro Diario, but both films challenge our notions of what it means to be a man or a woman, and what it means to feel love, loss, and everything in between. The performances in both films are top-notch. Abby Dalton is a tour de force as Desir in The Saga of the Viking Women, embodying the strength and determination of the female protagonists. Conversely, Renato Carpentieridelivers a nuanced and vulnerable performance in Caro Diario, in the role of Andrea, a severe academic who relocated there eleven years prior so that he could more effectively study James Joyce's Ulysses without being sidetracked by contemporary media, which he abhors.
Ultimately, these two films may seem like an unlikely pairing, but it's their contrasting nature that makes them such a powerful duo. They offer different perspectives on the human experience, and when viewed together, they paint a richer, more complete picture of the complexities of gender and emotion. They remind us that no matter how different we may seem on the surface, we all share the same basic desires and fears, and it's through our stories that we find common ground. So next time you're in the mood for something a little out of the ordinary, consider pairing The Saga of the Viking Women with Caro Diario. Your heart and mind will thank you.
By Victoria Villeneuve In Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a boy of 11, Larry with his Chinon Super 8 camera was looking for fleeting moments, fleeting moments that could immortalise a city of stone and brick. He turned to the vibrant hideaway of Thelma, the hairdresser who, with Chesterfields. smoked her disdain for the rainy air and found in Larry a kindred spirit. They toured the town in Nunber76, the Chevette, their faithful chariot, their eyes on wheels. They were captivated by the history of each street, the stories whispered in every brick and stone. They dined at JJ's Newberry, enjoying a frugal meal. They dined at JJ's Newberry, enjoying a frugal meal, their minds elsewhere, drawn by the handcrafted objects of a bygone era. They dined at JJ's Newberry, savouring a frugal meal, their hearts entangled in stories mysterious and unresolved. In the corridors of the public library, a librarian
reveals the secrets of the Encyclopædia Britannica, as found in a box of discards and with 32 volumes, Larry and Thelma have shared truths within standardized terms. The rain poured down on their rusty car, but Larry filmed it all, as if to say. "The resilience of this city will not be shaken. Because it will rise again, no matter what." As they drove along, camera in hand, Larry knew that the great city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire would live forever, thanks to cinema, while Nathalie Sarraute gave solemn discourse in French, one intangible treasure by intangible treasure.
Dust Mites & Bookmarks By Cecil Banks As the first light of dawn kissed the sleepy town of Portland, Maine, a serene beauty enveloped the landscape. From high above, the city appeared like a patchwork quilt of red-brick buildings and cobblestone streets, with the gentle waves of Casco Bay glistening in the early morning light. Seagulls soared gracefully through the sky, their cries blending harmoniously with the distant sound of ship horns echoing across the harbor. Amidst this picturesque scene stood a quaint old bookstore on 27 Exchange Street, its weathered sign swinging gently in the breeze. The aroma of aged paper and leather-bound books wafted out onto the quiet street as the sun slowly rose over the horizon, casting a warm glow upon the storefront. Inside, shelves lined with dusty tomes reached up to touch the ceiling, while sunlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, illuminating forgotten literary treasures. In that dimly lit basement of the bookstore in Portland, Maine, where dust mites danced in the shafts of moonlight filtering through the narrow slits of a window covered by an ornate iron grate, a figure sat cross-legged on a worn Persian rug. The air was thick with the tang of hot metal and old leather, the familiar click-clack of keys punctuating the silence like a metronome set to an unheard melody. The figure was not human but rather a lobster named Lester. He sat hunched over an old typewriter, playing improv jazz on his battered banjo. His antennae twitched in time with the beat, and his tail
swayed back and forth as he weaved intricate harmonies that seemed to defy both nature and his four-stringed instrument. As Lester lost himself in the music, a shadowy figure made his entrance into this underground sanctuary for storytelling souls. Faded Denial, known to some as the enigmatic wordsmith of the underground literary scene, sauntered in wearing ski pants paired with a tattered tweed blazer and a fedora tipped at a rakish angle. His gaze locked onto Lester, the lobster bard, as he approached the makeshift stage. "Well, well, well, if it isn't our resident crustacean crooner," Faded Denial mused, his voice a smooth blend of whiskey and smoke. "What tales do you have for us tonight, my friend?" Lester paused his banjo playing and fixed his beady eyes on Faded Denial. "Ah, Faded Denial, the wandering poet of the midnight hour. I have a tale to tell, a tale of love lost and found in the darkest depths of the sea." Faded Denial settled into a rickety chair, his eyes alight with curiosity. "Open up, Lester. Let’s hear it." Lester cleared his throat, a sound like gravel shifting on a rocky shore. And then, in a voice that seemed to echo with the sorrow, he began to speak.
"In the depths of the ocean, where the light of the sun dares not tread, there lived a mermaid named Seraphina. She had eyes like the sapphire depths, and a voice that could lull sailors to sleep with its haunting beauty. But despite her allure, Seraphina was lonely, for she longed for a love that could match the depth of her soul." Faded Denial listened intently, his fingers absently tapping out a rhythm on the arm of his chair.“Had a girlfriend like that,” he said. "One fateful night, as the moon cast its silvery glow upon the waves, Seraphina heard a song unlike any she had ever known. It was a song of longing and loss, of hope and redemption. And she knew in that moment that the singer of that song was her destined love, the one who would complete her in ways she never could have imagined." Lester's banjo sang a mournful melody, its notes cascading like tears into the silent darkness of the basement. Faded Denial's eyes were alight with a strange kind of reverie, as if he too had found himself lost in the depths of the tale. "And so, Seraphina followed the sound of the song, swimming deeper and deeper into the unknown. And there, beneath a towering cliff of coral and seaweed, she found him. A lone merman, with hair like spun gold and eyes that held the wisdom of the ages. He too had heard the call of her song, and in that instant, their hearts became one."
The room was silent save for the gentle thrum of Lester's banjo strings, the melody hanging in the air like a fragile thread. Faded Denial leaned forward, his eyes alight with a mixture of wonder and sorrow. "Dear friends, let us raise our voices in tribute to the power of love, for even in the darkest depths of the sea, it has the power to redeem us all." With a final flourish of his banjo, Lester finished his tale, the notes lingering in the air like a benediction. Faded Denial sat in silence for a moment, before rising from his chair and clapping slowly, the sound echoing in the dimly lit basement. "Bravo, Lester. A tale well told, my friend. You never fail to captivate us with your stories of love and loss," Faded Denial said, his voice soft with emotion. “Have you tried bathing in a kitchen pot before? The water should be toasty now.”
By Jonathan Livingstone Seasick As a seagull soaring high in the sky, I've watched these magnificent creatures for years. They are, in a sense, like pregnant seagulls traversing the terrestrial domain, their bellies swollen with the weight of the eggs they carry. But these eggs, unlike those of their avian counterparts, are not mere fragile white orbs; they are vehicles, automobiles, the very essence of human mobility.. The open commercial car carriers, these long, metal-ribbed beasts of burden, crawl like mechanoid insects along the highways and byways, their tires crunching gravel and asphalt alike. Their cargo: a dozen cars, cradled in steel arms, strapped down for the long journey ahead. The dance of the double-decker design is a marvel to behold, a symphony of industry that has captivated my soul. The towering trailers, twice as long as their single-decker counterparts, carry twice the number of vehicles, minimizing space and resource consumption. It's a testament to the ingenuity of humans, a masterpiece of engineering that even I, a seagull, cannot help but admire. As the sun rises, the car carriers come alive, their engines roaring like the beating of our wings. They pull away from the production facilities, laden with the fruits of human labor. The driver expertly maneuvers his rig, guiding the towering trailer onto the ramp,
the steel grinding against the tarmac as it ascends. Twelve vehicles nestle into their assigned spots, six to a deck, each secured by wheel straps, chocks, or other restraint systems. The ramp is then winched up and locked into place, ready for the long haul. The truck and trailer become one, an articulated beast of burden, rolling down the road like a steel snake. The wind whistles through the open trailer, the only sound save for the hum of the engine and the occasional beep of the GPS system. Hours pass, states are crossed, and the car carriers deliver their precious cargo to distribution centers across the land. Finally, the car carriers reach their destination, and the unloading process begins. The truck pulls up to a designated area, the hydraulic ramps lower with a hiss, and the driver engages the winch. The first car is winched off the trailer, its wheels spinning in the air for a moment before it's lowered gently to the ground. The driver carefully guides it to a waiting area, ready to be driven off and delivered to its new owner. This process repeats itself over and over, each vehicle emerging from the metal womb of the car carrier, a symbol of industry and progress. It's a fascinating process, one that few of our kind ever consider as we fly above the highways. But without these car carriers, the world would be a very different place. The intricate dance between production, transportation, and distribution would be thrown into disarray, and the automotive industry as we know it would cease to exist. So next time you're on the road, take a moment to appreciate the unsung heroes of the open commercial car carriers, as they give birth to the cars that shape our world.
And as I, the seagull, soar through the sky, I can't help but feel a deep sense of awe and admiration for these magnificent creatures. They are truly something to behold, and I am honored to witness their journey, again and again. Are you finished with those fries? Hey, man, you gotta have a serious talk with that plate of fries. Like, for real. You're not just chowing down on some mere inanimate object here, you're consuming a living, breathing organism. And these little fried critters deserve some respect, dude. They've been through so much already, just to end up in your hungry little hands. They were once tiny, sprouting things, reaching up towards the sun, soaking up the Earth's precious nutrients. They didn't ask for any of this, man. And now they're here, in your grubby little mitts, about to be devoured alive. Before you take that first delicious bite, I beg of you, my brother: make sure you totally kill them first. Give them a quick, painless death. It's the only way to end their suffering, the only way to grant them the peace they so richly deserve. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Hey, these fries are cooked, man, how much more cooked do they need to be?" Well, my friend, the heat may have cooked their bodies, but it hasn't touched their souls. They're still in there, still feeling, still aware. Reach out with your fingers, man, and give them a squeeze. Just a gentle squeeze, nothing too rough. Feel the warmth emanating from their crispy little exteriors? That's the spark
of life, my brother, the very essence of their being. And when you feel that, when you sense their vitality, their presence, that's when you know it's time to end their misery. Put a little extra oomph into that squeeze and feel the life force ebbing away from them. It's a beautiful, yet sad, moment, man. But it's necessary. It's the circle of life, the cycle of existence. And when you've finally ended their suffering, when you've ensured that they feel no more pain, then, and only then, can you proceed to enjoy your meal with a clear conscience. In the name of all that is right and just in the world, I implore you: make sure you totally kill your fries before you eat them. For their sake, and for your own. Peace, love, and tasty, pain-free fries, brother. Peace, love, happy truckin’, and tasty, pain-free fries.
Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Rufus Quackenbush, your certified whacko on a gastronomic adventure. Get ready to strap in for a culinary rollercoaster ride that'll leave you questioning your life choices. We're diving headfirst into the weird and wonderful world of bizarre foods, so buckle up and hang on to your taste buds! First off, let's talk about head cheese. Now, I don't know about you, but the last time I checked, cheese didn't come from a pig's noggin. I mean, call me crazy, but I like my cheese to come from a cow, not from Wilbur the pig. But hey, who am I to judge? If you're into jiggly mystery meat, head cheese might just be your jam. Just don't forget to channel your inner Viking berserker to get through it without losing your lunch. And then we have tongue tacos. Now, I love a good taco as much as the next person, but there's something about the thought of a cow tongue nestled in a warm tortilla that just makes me want to stick with chicken. I mean, I've heard of tongue twisters, but this takes it to a whole new level. Just make sure to enunciate clearly when you order, or you might end up with a very different kind of taco. BY RUFUS QUACKENBUSH
Now, let's talk about fish eyes. Eating fish eyes is quite the experience, like a staring contest you never signed up for. The slimy, gelatinous texture paired with the unsettling gaze of the eyeball can make even the bravest of souls think twice. It's a culinary adventure that tests both your taste buds and your mental fortitude, leaving you wondering why you ever decided to take that bite in the first place. But I have checked this out. Because they contain a gelling ingredient, fish eyes are widely used by cooks, even in Spain, to flavour and thicken sauces and broths. The eyeballs give the food a thicker consistency and a richer flavour. But hey, at least you can say you've tried something truly out of the ordinary, right? I don't know about you, but when I think of a fish, the last thing I want to do is eat its eyeballs. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to keep my food and my creepy-crawlies separate. But hey, if you're feeling adventurous, a little soy sauce and some scallions might just make those fisheyes go down a little easier. And don't forget the eye shadow or eyeliner for that extra bit of visual appeal. So there you have it, folks. If you're feeling brave and want to expand your culinary horizons, dive into the wacky world of bizarre foods. Just remember, sometimes it's better to stick with the classics and leave the mystery meat and creepy crawlies to the true adventurous eaters. Thank you and bon appétit! Dans le noir restaurant insolite - Accueil
Old Man Jasper wants to share a word with you. My dear reader, allow me to shed some light upon the enigma that is our local thoroughfare. It seems we have become hosts to a veritable procession of peculiar passersby, their singular appearances as fleeting as a shooting star. Just the other day, I witnessed an extraordinary trio of women, adorned in their finest Sunday attire, each clutching an elaborate cake tray. Where they came from and why they carried such delicacies remained a mystery, for they vanished as quickly as they appeared. Equally bewildering was the sight of a stern-faced gentleman, clad in a towering Stetson hat, solemnly promenading a toy poodle clad in a pink jacket. And let us not forget the young lady who struck a pose worthy of a Broadway debut, one foot perched upon a telephone pole as she indulged in a cigarette, her costume evoking the beloved anime character Sailor Moon. I must confess, these ephemeral encounters have piqued my curiosity. How is it possible that these individuals, like extras in a grand production, grace our presence with a single, unforgettable appearance and then disappear into the ether? I believe we must unravel this perplexing charade. To that end, I have devised an ingenious plan.
With your assistance, dear reader, we shall embark on a cunning surveillance operation. We shall procure miniature GPS tags and surreptitiously attach them to these enigmatic visitors. Through a sophisticated tracking system, we shall monitor their movements, uncovering the secrets behind their elusive nature. Are they secret agents performing covert missions? Time-traveling tourists from a bygone era? Or perhaps merely eccentric individuals seeking fleeting moments of anonymity? Join me in this whimsical experiment, my friend. Let us solve the mystery of our enigmatic street performers and discover the hidden tales behind their tantalizing appearances.
Par poète Josée Philippine Dans la douceur du matin qui se réveille, Le tic-tac de l'horloge mécanique chante sa mélodie, Comme un poème silencieux dans l'air tranquille. Les aiguilles qui dansent en cadence, Marquant le temps qui s'écoule sans hâte, Rappelant que chaque instant est une chance. L'éclat argenté de son boîtier poli, Brille comme une étoile dans la nuit sombre, Guidant nos rêves vers un nouveau jour béni. L'alarme retentit avec délicatesse, Nous invitant à nous lever avec tendresse, Et à accueillir la beauté de cette journée qui commence. L'horloge mécanique, gardienne de nos heures précieuses, Est bien plus qu'un simple objet utilitaire, Elle est le symbole de la magie du temps et de sa grandeur généreuse.
The Alarm Clock Translated by Dutch Iris Ah, the melodious symphony of a mechanical clock in the morning, because nothing says "good morning" quite like the relentless ticking of time. It's like a silent poem that whispers, "Hey, lazy bones, get your act together and seize the day!" The hands of the clock move with such grace and precision, as if mocking our sluggish pace in comparison. They remind us that every second wasted is a missed opportunity to do something productive – or at least pretend to be productive. And oh, let's not forget the polished silver case that shines brighter than our future prospects on a Monday morning. It's like a beacon of hope guiding us through the darkness of our dreams into the harsh reality of another day. But fear not, for the delicate alarm is here to gently nudge us out of our cozy slumber and into the harsh light of day. Because who needs a peaceful awakening when you can be rudely jolted back to reality instead? Thanks, clock. Thanks a lot.
-- It’s not exactly tuna…but it’s cheap! Ah, the delights of Oceanic Shame™! It's like a culinary daredevil stunt that your taste buds and stomach never saw coming. Imagine biting into a piece of seafood that tastes like it was canned in the middle of an existential crisis. The mayoslathered texture alone is enough to make you question your life choices, as if you were attending a self-help seminar hosted by a particularly sarcastic therapist who is going through an ugly divorce.. And the name! It's as if the ocean itself is laughing at you, taunting you for being brave enough to even consider consuming its putrid offerings. You take a bite and think, "Why, it tastes almost like chicken." Of course, that’s what the guys on top of the Andes said in the ’72 Andes flight disaster... But hey, let's not forget that Oceanic Shame™ isn't just about the taste or texture. Oh no, my friend. It's also about the experience. It's like taking a bite out of your own mortality, feeling the weight of the world's disappointment in humanity's inability to make anything truly satisfying. It's like a slap in the face, only instead of actual pain, you get a mouthful of this unholy abomination masquerading as seafood. Perhaps the most tragic part of Oceanic Shame™ is that you know it's not entirely the fault of the seafood itself. It's the humans who are responsible for this atrocity. The ones who thought it'd be a good idea to slap a can on it and call it a day. They must have the palates of a newborn sloth or the taste buds of a man who's been stranded on a desert island for far too long.
So, if you ever find yourself in the mood for a little self-flagellation disguised as a culinary adventure, do yourself a favor and reach for a can of Oceanic Shame™. It's the perfect companion for those lonely nights when you need something to remind you that, hey, at least you're not eating that stuff. Sold at Disreputable Stores Everywhere…And They’re Everywhere!
1Dickson, Andrew. “My Favourite Film: Caro Diario (Dear Diary).” Google, December 21, 2011. https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.theguardian.com/film/2011/dec/21/caro-diariodear-diary-moretti. 1Frankie Yankovic and his Yanks – Tic-Tock Polka / when banana skins are falling (1950, shellac) - discogs. Accessed April 12, 2024. https://www.discogs.com/release/10916610- Frankie-Yankovic-And-His-Yanks-Tic-Tock-Polka-When-Banana-Skins-Are-Falling. 1Grass, Delphine. Translation as Creative–Critical Practice. of Elements in Translation and Interpreting. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2023.